


The Olive Branch

by delta_capricorni



Series: Nonbinary Byleth Week [6]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fluff, Nonbinary Byleth Week (Fire Emblem), Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Tea, mercenary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delta_capricorni/pseuds/delta_capricorni
Summary: Lorenz gets reprimanded for his behavior.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester & My Unit | Byleth
Series: Nonbinary Byleth Week [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002213
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	The Olive Branch

**Author's Note:**

> dyou ever start writing what you suppose will just be another short little ficlet & 3k words later you're like '...well that was totally unexpected'
> 
> anyway here's day 6 of #nonbinarybylethweek, featuring the prompts "tea" & "mercenary" ! thanks so much for reading along, & come find me @deltacapricorn :B

Lorenz had just finished setting out the scones when Byleth arrived with a box of teas and a pot with freshly boiled water. Impeccable timing, flawless decorum, consistent appearance: these were all qualities for which Lorenz held endless respect, and which Byleth embodied almost preternaturally, as if they defined those traits instead of the other way around. This, Lorenz told himself, is what flustered him during their teas, not their piercing gaze, nor their seemingly constant surveillance of his behavior. After the usual niceties, it turned out unfortunately that the latter point would inform today’s teatime.

“Lorenz,” they began, and although most students claimed not to be able to hear the subtleties of any hints of emotion in Byleth’s tone, Lorenz could certainly tell that they were displeased.

“Is this about the young lady from the other day? If so, I’ll have you know that Ferdinand was on it too.”

“She… probably wasn’t the one I was thinking of, but that only makes things slightly more alarming.”

“Oh, Professor!” Lorenz whined. “Must you seek me out for tea only to reprimand my behavior?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Byleth retorted, taking a sip of their bergamot tea.

Lorenz sighed, stating for them the mantra he often repeated to himself: “It is for a very important duty that all members of House Gloucester—nay, all nobility in Fódlan, and likely beyond—must fulfill.”

“I understand, and you are not the only student here seeking a suitable spouse to ensure the success of Fódlan’s rulership,” they replied in a level voice, “but what I’m trying to say is that there are better ways of getting to know people. And better reasons, too, I might add.”

Byleth, Lorenz thought to himself, surely didn’t understand. They likely never had the opportunity, never mind the obligation, to seriously court another person. With land ownership and political power came responsibilities to the future, highly gendered ones, that he had given much more thought to than the average noble over the years. But he brushed all those thoughts aside and went for a different angle.

“Humph. You couldn’t possibly understand the pressures of being a nobleman,” Lorenz said, pretending to inspect a scone. “The only life you’ve known is that of the common mercenary, am I correct? It is reasonable that such a line of work would impart familiarity with mainly the vulgarities of life, but—”

A clink of porcelain, slightly louder than was proper, interrupted him. “The vulgarities?” Byleth echoed.

“Oh, you know, living life day-by-day and only planning for short-term survival, as commoners do. Nobles have the burden of strategizing not only for themselves, but for all the citizens of their respective province, a viable future, one that guarantees success one, ten, one hundred years from now…”

“I fail to see how this explains your skirt-chasing.”

“Skirt-chasing!” Lorenz scoffed. “Don’t compare me to Sylvain. I have standards, you know. She must be of high quality and her femininity pristine. A _real_ woman, that is. Fódlanese society will be rendered unstable by, and therefore should not tolerate, those who deviate from the norm, whether norms of class, religion, gender—"

“Excuse me?”

For the first time since they came to the monastery, Lorenz witnessed a flash of anger cross their face. “Wait, Professor,” he floundered, “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Thank you for the tea,” they cut him off brusquely. “I sympathize with you, Lorenz; I hope that future teas will not concern these matters.”

Lorenz had no words for them as they promptly exited. “Oh, Professor…” was all he muttered to himself.

-

When Lorenz was a little boy, he hated the idea of becoming a lord, almost as much as he hated his father. He would stare out his third-story window with envy at the children of commoners, playing with makeshift toys fashioned out of broken tools and searching for creepy-crawlies amongst cracked paved stones. They were free, he thought to himself. Even if his father informed him they were starving and unkempt ragamuffins with no hopes in life, at least they seemed to be having fun amongst themselves.

One day, one such child appeared at his bedroom door. He didn’t recognize the blue hair and eyes from the group of street urchins he surveilled, but he supposed it was because they had donned a clean, freshly ironed cleaning outfit. “I’m here to clean your room, young sir,” they proclaimed emotionlessly.

“Okay,” he said hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. As he stepped aside for them to begin their work, he added, “You can just say Lorenz. I don’t like being called ‘sir.’”

“Yes, Lorenz, sir.”

“No, just Lorenz.”

“I’m not allowed to address you impolitely, Lorenz, sir,” they quietly explained. “My apologies.”

“No, it’s alright.” Lorenz balled his hands into fists, aware that it must’ve been his father who instituted such a stupid rule. “Can I have your name at least?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you, that’s not part of the mission... Apologies, Lorenz, sir.”

Mission? Whatever. Such a concept was of no concern to the little boy. Lorenz grabbed the child by the wrist, more roughly than he intended to, but they barely seemed to register his touch. “Well, then, when you’re done, can you take me to play with your friends outside?”

“Friends? I mean, yes, sir,” they replied, perhaps realizing they could not refuse his requests. Lorenz was filled with glee at the idea of making friends, and even helped with housework to make it happen faster.

-

Today’s training drills involved a close study of the lance, and while Lorenz was certain he had the superior lance technique out of all the Golden Deer, still he dreaded such weapon-exclusive days. In the real world, battles were fought using any and all weapons at one’s disposal, be it the lance or fire magic. Would it not make sense, then, to learn how to more effectively use multiple offensive skills at a time?

“Urgh!” The unseemly sound was forced from his lungs as Claude jabbed his wooden lance right into his stomach and onto the ground. “Claude, that’s… you can’t do that in battle,” he gasped. “It’s unknightly.”

The other thing that Lorenz dreaded about weapon-exclusive training drills, though he’d never admit it, not even to himself, was that losing to the other Deer—especially since he was clearly the best warrior out of everyone, after all—was simply insufferable. And the absolute worst thing was to lose to Claude.

“Unknightly?” snorted the fake-noble (though Lorenz only ever called him that in his head). “In a _real_ battle, there’s no space for knightliness. Not trying to win is a sign of disrespect! Wouldn’t you agree?”

Something about the way he said _real_ really pissed him off. “You little…!” he grunted through gritted teeth. He immediately leapt back to his feet and began stabbing wildly, forgetting to maintain his form.

“Oops! Watch yourself, Lorenz,” Claude smirked, parrying his messy attacks with ease. His flexible stance and steady movements allowed him to bat away Lorenz like a cat playing with a mouse. Where ordinarily a strike on the limb or torso required the student to concede defeat and pause, Claude would only treat him to the lightest of taps on the shoulder or thigh. _He’s teasing me_ , Lorenz angrily realized.

“Take this, you mongrel!” Lorenz roared, dropping his lance and throwing his entire body at Claude. In that adrenaline-fueled moment where time seemed to slow as he launched himself at his greatest rival, he derived much satisfaction from seeing Claude’s aloof expression finally crack. As he sailed through the air, though, that satisfaction melted into guilt as he realized the shock on his face came not from his surprise attack, but from his choice of wording. _Mongrel._ Shit. He’d let his innermost prejudices slip—

Time suddenly reverted to normal speed, and without warning he found himself back on the ground, Claude pinning him down with a hand around his throat, his other hand balled into a fist, about to pummel him. “Say that again,” he growled under his breath. His fist remained resolute, but unmoving.

“Do it,” Lorenz challenged, even though his conscience deep down knew he ought to apologize. “Punch my lights out. I know you want to. You’re practically begging me to give you the excuse to.”

“You nasty little…” Claude seethed, but still he did not strike him. “I beat you at the lance, even when you attacked unfairly. Instead of whining like a stuck-up asshole, why don’t you try to get better at it?”

“I _am_ better at it!” Lorenz objected. “I just… I was distracted by other things.”

“The _real_ world doesn’t tolerate distractions on the battlefield,” Claude sneered.

“What is this asinine phrasing you keep throwing at me, about ‘real’ battles and worldly things?” As soon as he said it, he realized what Claude was likely referencing. “Oh, of course the professor trusts you more than they trust me, of course they tell you everything, even when it’s a private conversation—”

Claude finally slapped him across the face, a sound that reverberated throughout the training grounds and caught everyone else’s attention. From the opposite end of the room Byleth began running over.

“Claude, this is very unbecoming for nobles, for _us_ nobles…” Lorenz whimpered.

But Claude remained firmly atop him. “Just shut up and listen, you elite prick. One, people are allowed to tell their friends when they’ve been hurt by someone else. Two, literally everyone knows about your skirt-chasing—don’t you deflect to Sylvain—so don’t just assume Teach tattled on you. And three… we’re classmates, Lorenz. You have endless chances to ask me, or someone just as good as the lance like Leonie, to help you train. But you never do. Instead you’ve got your head stuck so far up your ass, it’s like you don’t even see us. Once you decided we were below you, you decided not to trust us. And if you can’t even trust your peers, how are you going to convince your people to put their trust in you?”

What was Claude even blathering about…? Before Lorenz could bite back, Byleth arrived. He marveled at how gently they placed their hand on Claude’s shoulder to coax him off of Lorenz, and how in turn Claude removed himself without protest. _How am I going to convince people to put their trust in me…_

“This is my fault, isn’t it?” Byleth broke the silence that had fallen upon the training grounds. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Teach, it’s mine. I lost my cool,” Claude confessed, and Lorenz felt a mix of resentment and shame. It really ought to be him apologizing, not Claude. And yet, he remained somewhat stunned on the floor.

-

One of the happiest months of Lorenz’s life passed blithely by as he began to play in secret with the children he used to watch in solitude from his window. His father had been called to a war conference in Goneril territory, so aside from weekly tutorials in etiquette (bleh!) he was free to wander around without repercussion. Over the days as he got to know the children, he couldn’t understand why they were kept away from him, or why they were so fearful of entering the grounds of the Gloucester estate.

It turned out that the child who had come to clean his home wasn’t originally part of the group of kids, but the two of them were accepted into the group when the mysterious kid successfully fended off a much larger bully, thus winning the respect of all spectators.

“Teach me! Teach me!” the other children wheedled them, Lorenz included, and they mutely obliged. Over the month, sprinkled amongst mundane games like tag and football, Lorenz looked forward to the training exercises this child offered them. He was particularly fond of those days when the children would march around the courtyard outskirts, searching for large branches to use as pretend lances.

And even though the kid almost always won, he couldn’t care less about his losses. It was fun to smack those branches together, pretending they were mercenaries from all over Fódlan. The few times he did beat them, it was glorious—but only for a moment. He would be just as eager to help them back to their feet and begin the next round of storytelling and playfighting. Lorenz came to view them as more than uncultured and pitiable, the way his father always described commoners. They could be smart or just plain silly, but they were always kind, and strong. He wished these halcyon days would never end.

Alas, he knew deep down that his father would return. It was simply extremely unfortunate that the day he did, he was out in the alleyways a ways away from the estate, roughhousing with the other children. He’d chosen his favorite stick today, a gnarled olive branch that the kids believed to be a thousand years old, and he was wrestling with the blue-haired child to get it back from their steely grasp. They were laughing and shouting all the while, the other kids surrounding them in a circle and cheering for both at the same time. Finally, Lorenz was able to grab ahold of the branch! But, distracted by his short-term victory, the kid tackled him to the ground and sat on his chest. Then, they both began giggling with joy.

“What in Sothis’s name is going on here?!”

To his great horror, it was none other than his father. Trailing him was an enormous bearded man, whose face and bare arms were crisscrossed with more scars than Lorenz had ever seen in his life.

“Lorenz, do not touch those children!” his father cried out. Turning to the man beside him, he declared matter-of-factly, “Both missions, that of escorting me to and from Goneril territory and of providing undercover protection to my dearest son Lorenz here, are thusly considered complete. You have already been paid in full. Therefore, with all due respect, Jeralt, please remove your child from mine at once!”

“Yep,” the man grunted, and picked the blue-haired child up from Lorenz by the hem of their shirt. In private, he nuzzled their head and whispered, “Good job, kid. I’ll get you a new sword as a present.”

Meanwhile, Count Gloucester began roughly dragging Lorenz by the hand back to the estate, leaving the other children—his new friends—behind.

“Wait!” Lorenz pleaded, still clutching his beloved branch. “Father, I didn’t get to say goodbye—”

Count Gloucester glared at him, and with one swift movement, he grabbed the branch and split it into a thousand pieces. “Forget those ruffians, especially Jeralt and his unruly child. Mercenaries are vulgar people who own no land and roam around the country seeking out only money and crude pleasures.”

“My favorite branch, Father…” Lorenz whimpered.

“Quiet!” His father raised a hand, but did not strike him. Instead, he stopped himself and sneered, “I did not raise you to be such an insolent child. You clearly do not understand that it is precisely because your combat and intellectual skills are thoroughly _inadequate_ that I had to hire those lowly people to protect you. You must become better, far better than those commoners before I can trust you to do anything at all on your own. So be a good son, Lorenz. Most pressingly, you are quite behind on your schoolwork...”

Glancing behind one last time, Lorenz caught sight only of the receding figure of the blue-haired child, dwarfed by their father, and the bits of branches scattered along the path. Though he tried not to forget those days of unbridled joy, he did, as his father terrified him into doing, forget their name and face.

-

With a sigh, Byleth turned back to the other Deer. “Alright, training is over for today. Get the lances back in their places, get washed up, and get some food into you. You all look like you need a break.”

As the other students filed out without a second glance at Lorenz, he called out feebly, “Professor, wait! I, um, I need to talk to you. Do you have a moment?”

To his immense relief they didn’t ignore him (why did he think they would?) and instead circled back. “What is it?” they inquired neutrally. He could understand why they weren’t about to help him up.

And now with their attention focused solely on his sweaty, bruised self, all he wanted to do was to shy away and nurse his wounds, alone in his room. But, recalling the memory of Claude’s fist hovering resolutely above him, he knew he had to press himself to remain resolute, too. “I must apologize.”

They shrugged and replied, “Don’t apologize to me, apologize to Claude. You really upset him.”

“No, not about… well, yes, I do need to apologize to him for that,” Lorenz admitted somewhat reluctantly, “but I’m referring to the other day when we had tea. I know I really upset you too.”

“Do you understand why?”

Internally Lorenz groaned, not expecting another lesson from the professor, but he had to suck it up. “I haven’t been careful in my words, to you or to Claude. I’m very sorry for that.”

But Byleth shook their head. “You can say whatever you want, Lorenz. I don’t particularly give a shit as to how you word things. What I really want to know is if your beliefs remain unchanged.”

His beliefs…? “Professor, I’m not sure if you understand—”

“Then explain them to me,” they said, gently but firmly. “And I don’t mean for you to just monologue, like, ‘oh, woe is me, classy women are so hard to find.’ Tell me, Lorenz, and tell me not as a student but as an equal: why are you so obsessed with proving yourself better than everyone else all the time?”

“…Am I?” Lorenz wondered aloud, more to himself than to Byleth. “I suppose I am. To tell you the truth, Professor… I am constantly afraid of being inadequate. In your eyes, of course, but in mine, moreso.”

Lorenz looked at the wooden training lance in his hands, which he only just realized had splintered into pieces, probably when Claude had thrown him to the ground. He suddenly experienced a fleeting moment of—recognition? déjà vu? he wasn’t sure—but he decided that, if he was going to change his behavior, he would start with the person whose trust, and friendship, he hoped for the most right now.

“Professor,” he wavered. Then, meeting their expectant gaze, “Will you help me to grow stronger?”

“Of course, Lorenz.” Byleth extended a hand to help him back to his feet. “Would you like to continue talking over tea?”

Lorenz smiled, squeezing their hand slightly before letting go. He was tired and sore, but in that moment a cup of bergamot tea, and an honest conversation, sounded like a splendid idea. “Naturally!”


End file.
